


collect > sell > profit

by lonereedy, xenolith1245



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Partnership, Underpants, story with art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29238726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonereedy/pseuds/lonereedy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenolith1245/pseuds/xenolith1245
Summary: “We’ve got some…incriminating photos,” a voice dangerously close to his ear whispers, “and you know how gossip spreads in South Park."Craig opens one eye, a little interested – damn his curious, prying nature, “Humor me. I’m listening.”Story by lonereedyArtwork by xenolith1245
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 16
Kudos: 60
Collections: jan 2021 - sp creek server does gnomes





	collect > sell > profit

**Author's Note:**

> lonereedy: Hello! :) Here is the reedy/xeno collab for the SP creek discord's January prompt "gnomes". It was so much fun, and honestly a privilege, to work with our server overlord (wielder of support knives, blue hearts and financial words of wisdom). Xeno decided to volunteer as an artist for this one, and I promise you will be blown away by what she has created. She's hugely talented, and her art really does improve this story 1000%!!! It's fantastic and funny! Thank you so much for being my (p)artner, xeno! I hope you all enjoy the story and artwork. <3
> 
> xenolith1245: Hello everyone, I am super excited to have the opportunity to draw something for this amazing fic. It is, for real, super amazing and reedy is just amazing. You will all love it I guarantee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He’s floating, weightless, surrounded by space debris and red and blue wavelengths of light. There isn’t a myriad of colors like most people believe; in fact, it’s mostly dark as the majority of emissions are invisible to the human eye. It’s just black, like his hair, red, like Red Racer, and blue, like his chullo. It’s actually quite _boring_ when compared to the touched-up photos NASA posts on their social media.

Craig likes boring. Out here, he feels alive. Euphoric. He’ll touch base with Tweek and the rest of the control center when he’s ready to head back to the station.

For now, he’s content to explore as a lone ranger. He reaches out to stroke a piece of space junk, lost in the quiet, eerie calm. Everything moves in slow motion, like honey dripping off the back of a spoon, which is why Craig’s caught unaware by the universe’s sudden assault. This vast, empty space suddenly becomes a war zone, sharp fragments zooming past Craig’s visor.

He forces his body backwards, determined to avoid a collision as much as possible, but he isn’t quick enough. He takes an asteroid fragment to the stomach and chokes out a cry, body curling up into the foetal position, vision drowning in hues of red and blue before something – a finger, thank goodness, not a needle – pokes into his arm.

His eyes shoot open, momentarily stunned by the flash of his too-white ceiling after the dark tones of outer space.

“Wake up, loser. It’s your turn.”

He scowls at his sister from his warm cocoon, one hand poking out from under his guinea pig printed bedsheets to weakly flip her off. “Urgh, fuck off.”

“No can do, bro, your boyfriend’s underpants are waiting.”

He yawns, revealing the crooked teeth he hates to catch sight of; the reason he keeps his mouth closed for photos, “What?”

“Tweek’s laundry’s in there too.” She points at the laundry basket she’s thrown on top of Craig’s stomach, _the asteroid fragment_ , “Your obsession really gets around. Didn’t you once offer to do it for…Trey? Terry?”

“His name was _Thomas_ , and he refused my generous offer.”

“Urgh, of course he did. Any sane person would,” Tricia sits down, uninvited, directly on top of one of the brown guinea pigs, so that only one of its ears pokes out. It pisses Craig off, and he whistles through his teeth to fight against his perfectionist nature. _Sit and cover the whole damn pig or at least leave its head out_ , “You’re such a creep. I dunno how Tweek puts up with your shit. I bet you _begged_ for his undies.”

“For fuck’s sake, Trish, I wash his spare set when he stays over. You know, like a good boyfriend. And it might not even be his. As if you’d know the difference between our stuff anyway.”

“It’s a pair of boxers, Craig. Mom only buys you briefs. I’m not _that_ unobservant.”

“I could have bought them myself,” Craig argues, because what fourteen-year-old boy can’t choose his own freaking underpants? His favourite pair is the customised briefs from Token, covered in photos of Stripe wearing different hats.

“I can see Tweek’s name on a sewn-in label.”

“Hey, my ass _is_ his. Still could be mine.”

“Weirdo.” Tricia scoffs, “Mom said breakfast’s in ten. Knock yourself out, laundry freak.”

She slams his bedroom door closed and he groans, pressing his pillow over his ears. His family seriously have no respect for his privacy. He’s about to drift off back to sleep when the laundry basket tips over, spilling clothing all over his stomach and legs, and little dips of pressure start roaming across his bedsheets.

“’m coming, Stripe,” he mumbles, no longer surprised that his intelligent fur child has escaped from his cage again.

He pulls back his sheets and looks at the mess of clothing over his bed. He blinks slowly, owlishly, as he realizes it isn’t just one pair of Tweek’s underpants. It looks as if his boyfriend has tipped his entire drawer of boxers out.

“What the-?”

In fact, there isn’t a single piece of Tucker clothing in there, unless Craig counts the stretched-out pair of navy boxers from Target that he wears when he stays the night at Tweek’s.

Either this is some in-poor-taste joke – Tricia was being extra sulky about being outvoted for Shakey’s Pizza last night – or Tweek’s gone off the deep end with some conspiracy theory.

He picks up the nearest pair, white and almost brand new, far too crisp and fresh for a used pair. He gets a whiff of freshly cut grass and his eyes widen. He _knows_ this scent. If he isn’t mistaken, it’s the Tide Spring Rain Limited Edition. How the hell did Tweek get this very rare detergent in winter? He brings the boxers closer to his nose and takes a big sniff, relishing in the pleasant, delicate scent of daphne blooms and cherry blossom.

He grabs other pairs and checks again. All of them are clean, cleaner than clean, as if they’re new – though with how quickly Tweek goes through underpants, it’s not that surprising.

But why the fuck would Tweek want him to wash _clean_ underwear?

He piles the boxers up – it’s getting to him to have them strung all over the place – and reaches for his mobile, charging up on his bedside table.

He’s seconds away from speed dialling his most used number when Tweek phones him – and man, he can’t wait to rub it in Clyde’s face that they’ve become one of those super romantic telepathic couples.

“Babe-” he answers, all smiles until his eardrum nearly bursts.

“WAAAAH!”

Wincing, Craig holds his phone a safe distance away, “Tweek, honey? Talk to me?”

“THEY’RE BACK!” Tweek screeches, “It was a sting operation, Craig. I’ve got nothing left. Nothing. I’m going commando, man.”

“Tweek, slow down,” Craig soothes, “what’s missing?”

“My boxers. Even the new ones I haven’t even opened, and your pair. I know it’s _them_.”

“ _Them?_ ”

“The underpants gnomes, Craig.”

Craig takes a deep breath. He’s heard about these gnomes before, on sleepovers past, when Tweek demanded he look under his bed, then suggested in a panic that they take turns on night watch to guard his drawers. Nothing ever happened – nothing showed up – but Tweek swears they exist, and that he once visited their underground village with Stan’s gang.

_They know corporations, dude. They have this plan all figured out, except for…arghhh, I don’t remember…_

Of course “the gnomes” showed up for those guys – shit always gets weird when you spend a prolonged amount of time with them – and it’s not as if Craig doesn’t believe Tweek saw something. It’s just that he also knows there was a fuckton of coffee involved, and after spending countless hours researching the effects of high caffeine intake – a must when your boyfriend drinks coffee like water – he suspects that Tweek’s naturally high stress levels combined with his coffee addiction caused hallucinations.

Still, there has to be some explanation for _how_ and _why_ Craig is sitting with all his boyfriend’s underpants.

“It’s okay, honey, I have your boxers. You wanted me to wash them?”

“No I didn’t?” Tweek sounds both relieved and confused. “You have all of them?”

“Yup.” He has to ask, “Did you have anything to drink after nine?”

There’s a small silence as Tweek thinks about it, then a resigned sigh, “Dammit, Craig. Dad brought me a refill when he ran through the new shifts. That was…after ten.”

“There you go,” Craig says, though what he really means is _fuck your dad_ , because the Tweaks have to be the most infuriating parents he’s ever met. “You might have been trying to keep them safe. That’s the why. So, how did you get them over here?”

Tweek doesn’t answer immediately, but Craig can hear him heading down the stairs – the squeak of the fifth step from the bottom is the give-away – and then grumbling as he finds some incriminating evidence.

“ _Shit._ ”

“Tweek?”

“My sneakers, Craig. They’re not how I left them.”

“So…sleepwalking?”

“Maybe? But I only sleep through if I’m at yours. Oh Jesus, I’ve probably blanked it out again,” Tweek’s grinding his teeth, barely remembering to take a breath as he whimpers, “Urgh, I thought I’d moved past this.”

Craig feels a sudden surge of protectiveness for his anxious partner, quick to reassure him, “It’s a one-off incident, not a setback. Hang tight, I’ll bring them over now.”

“Stay on with me?” Tweek asks, clearly a little shaken by the resurgence of his old habits.

“’Course,” Craig shimmies into his skinny jeans, keeping his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder. “I’ll be with you in no time, honey.”

He bumps into his mom in the kitchen. “You found the laundry basket? I was looking all over for the damn thing this morning.”

Craig nods, “ _Tweek,_ ” he mouths, holding out his phone.

“Morning sweetie,” she says into it with a smile.

“Hi Laura, is it okay if Craig comes over? I really need my boxers.”

She raises an eyebrow at her son – _long story_ , he whispers – and she just shakes her head, exasperated, newly-dyed blonde hair falling over one shoulder.

“No problem, I’ll send him over with leftovers.”

“ _Mom_ ,” Craig groans, always embarrassed when she steps into concerned parent mode; it’s been increasingly frequent after learning of Tweek’s coffee and meatloaf diet.

She flips him off, “You’re growing boys, I won’t take no for an answer.”

So, with his Tupperware filled with last night’s roast chicken dinner and a laundry basket full of boxers, Craig heads out to the Tweaks’.

He puts on his headphones, drowning out the noises of the neighborhood with Ed Sheeran’s _All of the Stars_ , so naturally he misses the little voices coming out of the bushes, singing a happy tune.

_Time to go to work! Work all night! Search for underpants, HEY! We won’t stop until we have underpants! Yum tum yummy tum TAY!_

  
  


* * *

  


Craig barely even remembers the underpants incident after a few days, able to convince Tweek that his additional evening beverage messed up his system and brought on psychotic symptoms.

In hindsight, letting down his guard when he knows by now what it’s like to be a resident of South Park probably wasn’t his smartest moment.

He’s settled in bed, finishing off his nightly routine with Tweek.

_You go first._

_No you._

_Ladies first._

_Ha ha, then I’ll wait for you._

_Babe._

_Yes?_

_Go to sleep._

_No, you first._

_Rest, honey._

There’s a strange sound, almost like chanting, coming from near his drawers. He sees Tweek typing his response, but slowly puts his phone down, scanning his bedroom for the source of the noise.

“I swear, Trish, if this is you getting back-”

“Craig Tucker,” a small voice pipes up, “we’re here to do business.”

Little green hats followed by tiny hands appear at all sides of his bed, surrounding him, and he feels as if he’s been transported to the island of Lilliput. The most plausible explanation is that Tweek’s won again and he’s already passed out, on his way to the land of nod.

He raises his middle finger and flashes it to his dreamland visitors.

“That all you got, pussy?” One of the red-bearded little men laughs, flipping him right back.

“Shit,” another panics, “he’s awake!”

“Fuck, guess we gotta kill him,” a dark-bearded one groans, the idea met with equal support and groans of displeasure.

“No, no, this is Craig Tucker. Phase Two, remember?”

“Phase Two,” they all nod, then the original speaker steps forward.

“Craig Tucker,” he says again.

“Who wants to know?” Craig says coolly, frowning at all the creases in his bedsheets thanks to all the grabbing and pulling from these imaginary little twerps.

“We’re the underpants gnomes-”

“Uh-uh,” Craig interrupts, “sure you are.”

“And we’re here on urgent business. We’d like to propose a partnership-”

“Look,” Craig flops back onto his pillow. “I know I’m having this fucked up dream because of that one thing with the boxers, but seriously. I’m not in the mood for this shit. Go bother someone else.”

“Oh, but it _has_ to be you,” the self-proclaimed underpants gnome says very seriously, “you see, we recently worked out the answer to a major part of our operation.”

“Yes,” says another gnome, “and we have…ways of getting you to cooperate.”

Craig snorts out a laugh, closing his eyes, “This is ridiculous. Fuck off.”

“There’s something I’m sure you’ll want to see, Craig,” the group leader says, sounding a touch smug, “and I don’t think you’ll want anyone else to get a peek.”

“Whatever,” Craig rolls over, willing the dream to change into something else. He half wonders if the telepathic phone calls with Tweek have morphed into telepathic symptoms and he’s inherited his boyfriend’s crazy hallucinations. “You better get out of here before my army of giant guinea pigs think you’re lunch.”

“Pussy,” the gnomes cough between themselves.

“Or I might just blast you with my laser vision.”

“We’ve got some…incriminating photos,” a voice dangerously close to his ear whispers, “and you know how gossip spreads in South Park.”

Craig opens one eye, a little interested – damn his curious, prying nature, “Humor me. I’m listening.”

“Imagine someone is caught doing something quite indecent to their partner’s belongings,” the gnome grins, looking downright evil – no wonder Tweek’s afraid of these little guys, “his reputation will be _ruined_ if people see his true nature.”

“So, the dude’s gross,” Craig shrugs, sitting up to show how unconcerned and uninterested he is, “what’s that shit got to do with me?”

“Show him.”

A brown envelope is passed into Craig’s hands, and he opens it carefully. Inside are photographs. He sees a dark-haired male with his face pushed into a pair of boxers.

“Ha, look at this guy. What a weirdo, sniffing…underpants? Such a pervert,” he looks closer. The boxers are white. In the background there’s a poster of the USS Enterprise. The dude has guinea pig print bedding.

Oh. Fuck.

“Wait…” this isn’t some random fucking weirdo, “that’s me.”

“Yes.”

“Sniffing Tweek’s…fuck. You were here? Saturday?” Craig fumes, too many questions on the tip of his tongue, “Did you steal his underpants and bring them here? You trying to frame me as some sort of pervert?”

“I think you framed yourself,” one gnome shrugs, a pipe dangling out of his mouth – and if he drops any ash on these sheets, Craig will kill him, “we didn’t ask you to sniff them.”

“You used Spring Rain. You bastards tricked me so you could take these…”

Craig looks through the other photos. His expression is so blissful as he lays surrounded by underpants – boxers, which everyone in his class knows he doesn’t wear – with a pair shoved up his nose, dressed in ruffled pajamas with sleep-mussed hair. It looks so freaking dirty.

“Well, Mr. Tucker, ready to listen now?”

Craig drops the photos onto his lap. If Tweek saw these, he’d probably freak out, especially if he found out who took them. Craig’s just managed to calm him down and reassure him the gnomes are in his head; all that progress will be lost if he has to admit that not only has he seen them too, but now he’s being fucking blackmailed by them. And Clyde and the boys would have a riot with these. Even worse, if Cartman caught sight of them…

“You little shits…”

“Let’s talk about our new partnership.”

Two of the gnomes unravel an A3 sheet of paper divided into three columns.

  
  


“Phase One,” the leader grins, pointing at the first column, “collect underpants.”

“Phase Two,” one of the black-bearded gnomes continues, “sell underpants to Craig.”

“Phase Three,” they all yell, so excited they start doing little jigs across Craig’s bed, “profit!”

Craig raises a hand, exhaling slowly, “Hold up. You want me to _buy_ some rando’s underpants?! Nu-uh, not happening. No way.”

The gnomes stop celebrating and stare at Craig as if he’s stupid.

“We thought about that,” says one of the red-beards, “and that’s why we’ll only offer you goods you’ll be interested in.”

“The fuck?”

“Our regular client is your nearest and dearest, correct?”

“He means Tweek Tweak,” says the leader, picking up one of the most suspect photos and holding it under Craig’s nose, “and don’t try to deny it. You certainly got up close and personal with his _intimates_.”

Craig’s suddenly hit with a jolt of panic, “Does he know about any of this?”

Maybe Tweek saw these guys last week and they tried to blackmail him first? Craig really should have taken his boyfriend more seriously.

“Of course not,” The leader shakes his head. He sounds surprisingly sincere for a snarky little shit, “Kid’s got a severe case of _gnomophobia._ ”

“That’s fear of gnomes,” says another, and Craig flips him off.

“Yeah, I figured,” Craig deadpans, “and I’m not surprised if this is the sort of bullshit he’s had to put up with.”

“So, shall we agree on a price.”

“A price for what? My silence?”

“For our silence, actually. How much you willing to pay for Tweek’s butt-huggers?”

Craig puts his head in his hands. _Please be a dream, please be a dream, please be a dream._

“You’re not real,” he mumbles, “this is all a bad, _bad_ dream.”

He tries to imagine himself in the front seat of Red Racer, speeding down the track in pole position, or riding on the back of a giant Stripe, smashing his way through Tweek Bro’s window to pick up his boyfriend and go on a rampage. 

“What about five bucks a pair?”

Craig groans. The gnomes are real. They were always real. And they aren’t going to go away until he accepts their ridiculous offer. “Are you serious? Tweek gets three pairs for fourteen bucks at Target. You fuckers aren’t ripping me off on top of blackmailing me. Two dollars each, take it or leave it.”

The gnomes look at each other, then at their A3 poster and finally up at Craig.

“That’s still profit,” the leader says, nonplussed, “Phase Three achieved.”

“Profit! Profit!” They all start chittering and celebrating once more.

“Leave the money in your bottom drawer,” the red-bearded leader instructs, “we’ll put Tweek’s underpants in there.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Craig sighs, “but sure. Anything to get you the fuck out of my bedroom.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Craig Tucker.”

They start up their strange little chant again as they descend from Craig’s bed, pipes dangling from some of their lips and bags strapped to their backs. He watches them exit his room in a straight line, the last one turning to flip him off – _bastard_ – before the door closes and it’s just Craig and Stripe once more.

“Stripe,” Craig sighs, sinking back into his pillow, “what the fuck just happened?”

  
  


* * *

  


It starts off pretty easy, even though Craig laments the loss of his pocket money. Before bed, he leaves a couple of dollars in his drawer as agreed, and a pair of Tweek’s boxers appears there in the morning. What Craig hadn’t considered before being blackmailed into a partnership was what he was going to do with Tweek’s underpants.

Obviously, he’d have to give them back to Tweek. But he has to be sneaky – Craig’s never been more grateful for his years of practice as the thief Feldspar – returning his boyfriend’s underpants when they catch the bus to Tweek’s house every afternoon.

He uses the opportunity of Tweek grabbing a coffee to neatly fold and return the stolen goods to their rightful owner.

Sure, sometimes it’s a pain in the ass and bordering on perverted – he’s carrying his boyfriend’s intimates in his school bag every day, then leaving them in his locker! – but without a way to destroy those incriminating photos, Craig’s balls are in a vice.

It’s not as if he can keep up with this forever. And for all the work they’re doing, earning a couple of measly bucks for a night’s work doesn’t even seem worth the effort for the gnomes. Apparently, they agree with Craig, because a month into their plan for profit, Craig finds a note in his drawer.

  
_Amendment to Phase 2: Sell underpants to Craig._  
_Nightly drop off will be tripled from tonight._  
_Pay up or prepare to be exposed._

  


  


“Fuck me,” Craig exhales, poking his scrambled eggs with his fork.

“Ok, fuck you,” Tricia teases, kicking his legs from under the table as they eat breakfast. “What’ve you done this time?”

Craig glares at her, stabbing his eggs again, “I haven’t done anything.”

“Sure. That’s why you’re always grounded,” Tricia smiles around the lip of her glass of juice, “you _never_ do anything.”

He gives her the finger, finally taking a bite of his soggy breakfast. They eat in silence for a while, Craig hyper aware of the looks Tricia keeps sending his way.

“I’m trying to work out the solution to a problem.”

She hums thoughtfully, loading her used cutlery into the dishwasher. “Can I help?”

“Well, for once, _you’re_ not the problem,” Craig smirks, fully expecting her to flip him off. Instead, she walks over and steals the last cherry tomato off his plate.

“Is it a Tweek problem?”

“No,” Craig says a little too quickly, then at her look, the same one he’s given out to Clyde plenty of times, he adds, “though he’s unknowingly involved.”

“Craig, what the fuck?”

“It’s complicated,” Craig pulls back his chair and stands up, manoeuvring around her to rinse off his plate. “ _A friend_ -”

“Yeah, _a friend_ ,” Tricia interrupts, gently bumping his side, “go on.”

“ _He’s_ having to make regular payments for something in exchange for a secret, which isn’t really a secret, it just _looks_ like one because these little bastards were a lot a smarter than _he_ anticipated and they weren’t really a figment of _his_ imagination.”

Tricia suddenly grabs onto his arm, “You’re being blackmailed?!”

“What? No! Not me, my friend. He wants my advice.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Tricia scoffs, “but this is pretty serious, Craig. Does Mom know?”

Craig shakes her off, “Don’t tell her. It’s not like she’d believe me anyway. _You_ wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Underpants gnomes,” he says, and just like that, Tricia looks at him like he’s gone crazy. His stomach sinks – this must be what it feels like for Tweek when someone shuts down his theories – and he brushes past her to put on his coat. “Forget it, Trish. Grab your shit, we gotta go.”

He leaves six dollars in his drawer, ready for the nightly exchange.

What the fuck else can he do?

  
  


* * *

  


Returning the underpants soon becomes even more of a challenge than paying for them. They’re split up for a group project, Tweek lumbered with Kyle and Heidi whilst Craig has Token and Jimmy.

Now that Craig’s at the Black’s every afternoon, he doesn’t have the same opportunity to return Tweek’s underwear, and since it’s been upped to three pairs a night, his secret stash is building up. He’s had to hide them under his bed, thankful that his parents expect him to clean his own room.

He’s been managing pretty well so far – though Tweek’s had to pay 60/40 for their last few date nights – but Craig’s done a good job of keeping everything under control given the circumstances.

Then he reads Tweek’s text.

_I’ll be over in 10 xx_

Shit. It’s their Friday night study date. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He texts back quickly.

_Ok, see you soon babe <3_

Then he bolts upstairs to his bedroom. They, well, _Tweek_ , usually ends up making a fort, and Craig knows there’s a chance he’ll spot his missing underpants in their current location. He can’t shove all twelve pairs into his own drawers, and since Tweek has a free pass to his closet and drawers (boyfriend rights) it would look weird if he asked him not to go through them. He scans his room, desperately thinking of where he can temporarily hide the stash.

There’s a box of toys ready for donation in the bottom of his closet, so six pairs go in there. Then he manages to shove another couple into a jigsaw box – they’d finished that one recently, so it’s unlikely Tweek will want to look in there today – and another three pairs fit into his telescope box.

He hears Dad opening the door and greeting Tweek and scrunches the final pair into his hand. He takes the stairs two at a time, the white boxers peeking out of his fist. He spies Dad’s coat on the landing and, whilst Tweek’s removing his shoes, shoves the remaining pair of boxers into one of the coat’s deep pockets.

“Hey honey,” he smiles, relieved to have completed the task just in time. He holds out his arm.

Tweek takes it, cuddling close, “Hi Craig.”

  
  


* * *

  


After a successful hour of studying – with a sweet fifteen minutes of footsie – Craig announces it’s time to wind down.

“Fort time?” Tweek asks excitedly, almost bouncing on his heels. Craig’s sure Tweek’s on the right track for an engineering major since he’s obsessed with building stuff. Models, Legos, 3D jigsaws…

“Yup, I’ll get the snacks.”

“Can I…borrow one of your tops?” Tweek asks, fingers tugging at the loose buttonhole he’s missed. Craig’s weak to seeing Tweek in his clothes, and he’s pretty sure Tweek knows this, but he gives his assent anyway. It’s so freaking cute to see his t-shirts look like tunics on Tweek – and if he gets too hot inside the fort, he’ll kick off his pants and Craig will have to force himself to keep his eyes on the screen.

“Help yourself, honey.”

Craig heads downstairs to grab their drinks and chips, leaving Tweek to complete his magic. In just under fifteen minutes, his bedroom is transformed. His mattress is on the floor – and Craig commends himself for removing the evidence of his forced partnership – and Tweek’s taken the spare pillows from the closet to create a giant, comfortable floor cushion. The bedside tables support a sheet-draped canopy, so equally spaced that it impresses Craig every single time. Then, sitting in the middle of the fort, are Tweek’s plush stegosaurus Onid and Craig’s space monkey Sam.

Tweek’s setting up the laptop for their Red Racer viewing – they’re partway through season four now, and a new rival, Yellow Racer, has been introduced – already changed into Craig’s ‘Space Case’ tee; his glasses close to sliding down his nose.

“Babe, you make the best forts,” Craig praises, setting their food and drink tray inside the structure.

He’s waited all week for boyfriend night – although Clyde likes to remind him that whenever he wants to hang out, it’s _always_ conveniently boyfriend night – but sadly Tweek can’t come over every day. Even if the Tuckers all want him to be there. He’s part of the family now.

Snuggled up next to Tweek, cheering for his cartoon hero and dipping kettle-cooked chips in salsa, Craig’s in heaven. No gnomes or underpants in sight. After about three hours, he feels a shaky hand creep onto his thigh.

“Babe?” He turns to Tweek, who’s nibbling at his lower lip. His glasses have fallen down his nose again, and he looks freaking adorable.

“Can I...? You see…Um…Gah! I’m not crazy, Craig,” Tweek says slowly, “but, I’m getting worried. I know you tell me it’s all in my head and I don’t want us to argue…”

“But?”

“But the underpants gnomes won’t quit. They’re real, I promise! And they keep coming back for more! It’s driving me insane!” Tweek drops his head, glasses falling onto the mattress. Craig covers Tweek’s hand with own, coaxing him into holding hands and squeezing tight. “I’m down to less than half, Craig. I’m…even wearing your pair today. I didn’t want them to be taken tonight.”

Fuck. Of course Tweek’s noticed he’s twelve pairs down. Craig wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s frame. He can’t admit to the blackmail or the underpants stash just yet, but he can relieve one of Tweek’s fears tonight.

“I believe you, Tweek. They aren’t in your head,” He presses a kiss against Tweek’s hairline. “And you’ll get your boxers back. I know it.”

“Thanks Craig. They do keep coming back,” Tweek picks up his glasses, shooting a knowing glance up at Craig. “All KonMari’d and everything.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh-huh…Anyway, you wanna binge season six?”

“I’ll get the ice cream.”

  
  


* * *

  


It’s Monday morning, and thanks to a barrage of texts from Tweek – he’s down to his last few pairs of boxers after all – Craig’s up early. He heads downstairs for breakfast to find Dad still sitting at the table, nursing a weak cup of black coffee.

“Morning,” he calls as he grabs the milk carton from the fridge, “you working the late shift?”

“Son, we need to talk.”

Now that doesn’t sound ominous at all. Craig puts his glass down and takes a seat.

“Your mom asked me to do a Goodwill drop off this morning, and I had a quick look in all the boxes first, just in case there’s anything you two didn’t need any more that I could use for my model ships…and I found your _stash_ , Craig.”

Craig rolls his eyes at the term, “I’m not doing drugs.”

“No – you better not be – your, um. I found Tweek’s…there were a lot, son.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Craig finishes pouring out his milk, one eyebrow raised, “I have a lot of Tweek’s stuff. Duplicates mostly, for all scenarios.”

Tweek’s acute forgetfulness means Craig has to be diligent. He has copies of everything his boyfriend might lose – and need – from house keys to his personalized coffee bean thermos.

“I’m talking about his underpants, Craig.”

Shit.

Craig knows exactly which box Dad’s on about now. The one from his closet. He hasn’t had time to return those boxers yet, and it seems he’s too late.

“Then I got another surprise,” Dad continues, cheeks as red as his hair, “in my coat.”

Craig rests his forehead on the table, glass of milk forgotten.

“Now, I know you’re at an age where you get…urges.”

“Urggghhh, Dad,” Craig groans, keeping his eyes on the tablecloth. “It’s definitely not time for _the talk._ ”

But he persists, “Look, your mom gets Tricia when she’s at least twen-thir-forty. And I just want to make sure you’re both safe. You’re my boys.”

“Dad!!!” Craig sits up, glad that his hat’s covering his ears, sure that they are flushed pink, “We’re not doing whatever you’re thinking we’re doing. And… _fuck_ , just stop thinking it.”

“I left them in the back of your closet. When you’re ready to talk-”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Craig takes his glass of milk back upstairs.

This situation is getting out of control.

  
  


* * *

  


Craig’s in a daze as heads to his locker. How the hell has he allowed himself to be manipulated by a bunch of ankle-grazing assholes? Now he’s out of pocket money, has twelve pairs of underpants that aren’t his stashed back under his bed and his Dad thinks he’s having sex with Tweek.

He inputs his combo – the month, date and year Tweek punched him in the face and first caught Craig’s attention – and slowly opens the door. There seems to be a bit of weight behind it, and he frowns as a few small documents, the size of a photograph, tumble to the floor. More and more keep flowing out, piling up around his feet.

They aren’t just photograph-sized. They _are_ photographs. Craig’s face pales as he recognizes a few of them. He’s sat in bed, surrounded by Tweek’s underpants. He’s sniffing the crotch of his boyfriend’s boxers.

“Shit!” He drops to his knees, trying to gather them all up and shove them back inside his locker. Those shitty gnomes broke their own agreement. A few students start picking up stray photos, mumbling among themselves as they realize the subject is Craig, and he’s doing something very questionable.

Craig shuts his locker and runs down the hallway, passing Token, Clyde and Jimmy, who’re all holding photographs, faces twisted in confusion, awe and disgust.

“Son, wait!” Craig freezes. No _fucking_ way.

“Dad?! What are you doing here?”

He holds up two bottles, “Strawberry or apple flavor?”

Any remaining color drains from Craig’s face as soon as he realizes they’re not juice, but lube. “Put those away!”

He pushes past him before he starts trying to give him condoms in public. Finally outside, he takes deep breaths. Tweek appears in front of him, tears collecting in the corner of his dark blue eyes. He looks so disappointed and betrayed.

“I trusted you,” Tweek shouts, “but you were working with _them_ all along?!”

Craig steps towards him, “No, babe, it’s all a mis-”

“Was that you too?” Tweek points at the front entrance of their school. Craig looks up, jaw dropping at the huge mural that definitely wasn’t there earlier, painted in the same style as the yaoi art the Asian girls used for their Tweek x Craig artwork many years ago. But instead of it being the two boys in love, it’s just Craig, half naked and surrounded by Tweek’s boxers.

What. The. Fuck.

He turns to Tweek, ready to explain everything, but he’s gone. Instead, the gnomes are all there, laughing at him, calling him a pussy and flipping him off. Other students join in, pointing and heckling and whispering along with the little troublemakers, with Stan’s gang at the front.

 _“Told ya Craig’s a dirty raging faggot,”_ Cartman crows, and Craig wants to punch him in his stupid fat face, and then squash those double-crossing, two-faced gnomes under his feet like bugs.

Craig’s world is spinning and he closes his eyes and covers his ears to shut everything out.

_FuckoffFuckoffFuckoffFuckoff-_

He wakes up with a start, panting heavily. Sweat’s dripping down his brow and his bedsheets are all askew. It’s a relief to be back in his own bed, to be out of that nightmare, but Craig knows he has to stop this. He’s let the gnomes use him for Phase Two of their ambiguous business model for too long, and Craig is a leader, not a follower.

He wraps his arms around his knees and decides he has to end it tonight. He checks his alarm clock. It’s just after three in the morning, and if he remembers correctly, the gnomes usually collect Tweek’s underpants at 3.30am. He slides off his bed and retrieves the money he’s left behind for tonight’s exchange.

He’s going to wait up for them and tell them where they can stuff their plan. Nobody blackmails Craig mother fucking Tucker.

  
  


* * *

  


_Time to go to work! Work all night! Search for underpants, HEY! We won’t stop until we have underpants! Yum tum yummy tum TAY!_

Craig settles back into his re-made bed, pretending to be asleep. He’ll wait for the gnomes to find out they’ve been short-changed, then he’ll strike. It doesn’t take long, as the gnomes work pretty fast.

“Hey, there’s nothing here,” one of them chitters, “you see anything?”

“Nothing!” another cries.

“He’s violating the agreement.” There’s anger.

“Without Phase Two, we can’t progress to Phase Three!” And worry.

Craig sits up and flashes his torch at the gnomes. “We need to talk.”

“Where’s our money?” The red-bearded leader demands. “You don’t want those photographs leaked, then you better pay up.”

Craig shakes his head, “I don’t give a fuck about those. Not anymore. Gossip in South Park lasts about a week, tops.”

“He’s right,” one of the dark-bearded gnomes nods, “a lot of shit happens here, no time to dwell on the past.”

“You don’t even need me for Phase Two,” Craig says, standing at his full height so he can loom over them, “set up a market stall or find another person to sell to. I want my name off that fucking business plan.”

He picks up the leader by his little hat, “I won’t be paying a single penny more. If I want Tweek’s boxers, I’ll be taking them off him myself.”

“Ohhh. Kinky,” the leader chuckles, “maybe the photos weren’t far off the mark after all.”

Craig swings him above Stripe’s cage.

“I want you to meet the best guinea pig in the whoooole world. Sure, he looks docile now, but he’s very territorial. Who knows what might happen if you spent the night sharing his space…?”

Stripe stands at his cage door and stares blankly at them, nose twitching. The gnomes all audibly gulp, and Craig mentally cheers that his assumption that they prefer visiting houses without pets is correct.

“Alright, alright, I get it, kid. Put me down. We’ll just cross out your name.”

Craig drops him onto his bed. “I want to see you do it.”

The gnomes roll out their poster once more and, using Craig’s Red Racer pencil, they cross out ‘Craig’ from Phase Two.

“And with that, our current partnership is dissolved,” the gnomes’ leader says, holding out his hands. Craig sticks out his pinkie finger, allowing him to give it a shake. “We’ll destroy all the photographic evidence in the village. You’re free to sniff your boyfriend’s boxers without judgement.”

“Fuck off,” Craig groans, ready for it all to be over, “and get out of my room.”

They follow the command, and once more he watches them exit in a straight line, chanting and pipe-puffing. The last one turns to wave goodbye – Craig flips him off – before the door closes and it’s just Craig and Stripe, as it should be.

“We did it, buddy,” Craig grins, pushing a piece of peeled and sliced carrot between the bars of his cage as a treat. “It’s over.”

  
  


* * *

  


The next morning, Craig feels lighter already. It’s been a fucking crazy month – as one should probably expect as a resident of South Park – but Craig’s ready for peace and quiet, for boring, uneventful days with his friends and boyfriend.

He wakes up to Stripe’s wheeking, and lets his boy out for floor time, scratching his ears when he eventually sits by his side on the floor. Craig opens his drawers and freezes. There isn’t a single pair of his briefs inside. He tries another drawer, and then his closet.

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

His phone rings, and telepathic link or not, Craig just knows it’s Tweek.

“Hey honey.”

“CRAIG!!! GNOMES, OH MY GODDD!” His panicking boyfriend screams into his ear, “WAAAAHHHH!!!”

_It’s just another day in South Park._

**Author's Note:**

> lonereedy: Full credit for Tweek's final piece of dialogue goes to xeno. :D 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
